


The Prince of Tyvia

by carvedwhalebones (fuckyeahlucifersupernatural)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game), Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Smut Adventure, F/M, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:46:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9675845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/carvedwhalebones
Summary: A "Choose Your Own Adventure" spin on The Prince of Tyvia. Choose Lord Nathan Bayle's actions as he interacts with Prince Kallisarr.





	1. Greetings from Tyvia

**Author's Note:**

> **Tumblr URL:** carvedwhalebones.tumblr.com

  **⤝ ⤞**

  
**Act 1, Scene 1  
**   
**Setting:** _Dunwall’s harbor during midday. A small crowd has amassed to see Prince Kallisarr enter Dunwall, but they are held far back by the City Watch. You can only hear soft cheers and murmurs over the blaring of the passing ships’ horns. Lord Nathan Bayle and his daughter, Emma, await.  
  
_

The last time the Kallisarr dynasty has joined with a prestigious family outside of Tyvia was in the early 1600s to ensure a small victory in the War of Four Crowns. To do so now is simply unheard of and mildly scandalous in Tyvia’s court. With whispers of revolution and the Prince of Tyvia’s failure to produce an heir, however, concern has been vocalized regarding Tyvia’s wellbeing. For the sake of preserving its monarchy, Tyvia has turned to Gristol for a solution.

All of Dunwall’s nobility jumped at the idea of one of their offsprings being married off to the Prince of Tyvia. Gifts, letters, and even grand ships have been sent to Prince Pavel Kallisarr in hopes of winning his favor. Yet it is only one gift that managed to catch the young prince’s eye: the finest bottle of Dunwall Whiskey and a portrait of the family that sent the gift. A brief letter offering interest of furthering the union between Tyvia and Gristol was, immediately, sent to the sender: Lord Nathan Bayle.

Lord Bayle was quick to agree for his daughter, Emma Bayle, to be wed to Prince Pavel Kallisarr. The widowed Lord sees the benefits of such a relation and to have his only daughter wed to such a figure would ensure a prosperous future for her. With his blessings given for such an arrangement, Lord Bayle was quick to invite the future groom to come to Dunwall and begin the union between both Houses.

Lord Bayle can’t say he is entirely knowledgable of Tyvia or even of its young Prince. He is aware of what commerce takes place between both countries, the longevity of the Kallisarr dynasty, and the cold weather, but that is as far as he knows. All that he has to prepare himself and his daughter for their meeting is an old portrait of the House of Kallisarr; Prince Kallisarr a serious, young boy with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and haunting blue eyes.

The poor preparation is apparent on Lord Bayle’s features when the Prince arrives from ship with an entourage of men and women in black masks and Tyvian wolfhounds. He’s not sure what to make of the scene. The crowd appears to feel the same, mixtures of whooping cheers and chattering filling the air.

Prince Kallisarr distracts with a wide grin, making his way down the dock to the awaiting family. He bears little resemblance to the portrait, save for those blue eyes. He has grown into a rather sturdy man of strong build, his shoulders broad and carrying a rather pleasing face. His cheeks aren't quite as pronounced, but his jaw and smile are rather striking. Lord Bayle wonders if the man has served in the military and that is why he carries such a physique. Or perhaps all Tyvians bear such a likeness?

Emma is quick to lean into him, murmuring with relief and excitement, “What luck, he’s handsome!”

Lord Bayle answers her with a noncommittal sound, the strange women and men in pitch black masks absent from his mind and having disappeared into the streets of Dunwall.

“Welcome, Prince Kallisarr. It is an honor to have you here in Dunwall,” Lord Bayle greets, extending his hand out. It is met with a firm grip that impresses the Lord. Nathan makes a gesture to his daughter, “This is my daughter, Emma, your bride-to-be.”

“Ah, pleasure to meet you, Lady Emma,” the Prince comments, words carrying a slight accent. Emma gives a pleased smile when the dark-haired Prince takes her hand and kisses the back of it.

“The pleasure is all mine, m’lord,” Emma returns, Prince Kallisarr’s lips still pressed against her hand.

“I will make sure of that,” he murmurs against flesh, adorning her hand one final kiss before letting it go. Emma turns scarlet, a choked sort of laughter bubbling out of her throat. She cradles the kissed hand to her chest.

Lord Bayle hardly seems to notice the exchange, making a gesture to the rail car.

“Please, Prince Kallisarr, let’s head back to my estate. We have quite the feast waiting for you.”

 

 

  
**⤝ ⤞**

**Act 1, Scene 2**

  
**Setting:** _Lord Bayle’s Estate; dinning room. It is late in the evening, the curtains drawn. Lord Nathan Bayle and Prince Kallisarr sit next to the other, Emma Bayle sitting across. There are a few individuals in black masks moving through the background, unnoticed by the occupants and staff in the dinning room. They are already on the second course, deep into conversation._

 

Lord Bayle must say he’s impressed with the Prince, observing him over his glass of wine throughout dinner. Conversations have been quite pleasant, drifting between the basic care for the Tyvian wolfhounds to the stark differences in weather between Tyvia and Gristol. He was finishing explaining that it is custom for all Princes, before taking full control of the Tyvian crown, to spend time with one of the military branches for educational, physical, and psychological purposes. That gains Lord Bayle's favor, but he is not the only one. Emma appears terribly fond of him from across the dinner table, her eyes constantly fixated on the Tyvian.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what are those men in the black masks? I saw them with you when you arrived, m’lord,” Emma inquires.

“Ah, not just men. Women, too. With the revolutionaries causing amok in the outskirts of the capital, my father thought it best to create what is similar to your Lord Protector. But why one when you can have many? We call them _Operators_ and they have all sworn an oath protect the House of Kallisarr, sacrificing their names and selves, in the process.”

“Oh, their names?”

“Yes. They agree to have any traces of who they once were removed from the records and history books. That is why they wear the mask. Being an _Operator_ is one of the highest honors and positions to bear in Tyvia. To be under their care means no harm will ever befall to you,” Prince Kallisarr explains, his gaze fixated on Emma. “When you become my wife,” the Prince gives a nod at Emma before turning to look at Lord Bayle, “you, too, will be under such protection.”

Emma gives a reliving smile, but Lord Bayle goes stiff in his seat, fork hovering over his plate. A hot hand has made its way onto his thigh, the Tyvian prince having accentuated his words by squeezing his leg. Perhaps it is meant to be reassuring, but it only leaves the older gentleman baffled. This is hardly appropriate, unsure of how to address the foreign hand.

Emma hardly seems to notice her father’s stillness.

“M’lord, I appreciate the safety. I must say, though, that to be an _Operator_ sounds very dangerous.”

Lord Nathan Bayle doesn’t quite hear the rest of the conversation, focused on the hand that remains, still, on his thigh. He’s not sure how to address it. Perhaps in Tyvia this is nothing to be up at arms in. Lord Bayle attempts to move his leg, in hopes of brushing off the hand, but the hand remains. The older gentleman carefully schools himself and returns to his meal, movements laboriously slow. A fork skitters, loudly, across his plate when the intrusive hand slides inward, fingers boldly digging into the flesh of his inner thigh.

Lord Bayle murmurs an apology, but it appears that both Emma and Prince Kallisarr hardly have noticed his fumble. They continue to carry on with their conversation, something the Prince said causing her to giggle.

He can feel himself grow heated, idly tugging on his collar, at a loss of what to do. Only when fingers begin to dance upward, the edge of a hand pressing far too close to his groin does he leap from his seat. The chair nearly falls backward, the conversation coming to an abrupt halt.   “I…apologize. I’m not feeling too well. You two…carry on amongst yourselves. I will retire to my room,” he manages to exhale, Emma shooting him a concerned look that he waves away. “I am fine. Just lightheaded,” he assures, lamely. Lord Bayle refuses to look over at the Prince as he exits the dining room, missing the coy smile directed his way.

 

**⤝ ⤞  
**   
**Act 1, Scene 3**  
  
**Setting:** _It is after hours, all the staff having retired to their rooms. Lord Nathan Bayle emerges out of his room to make his way to kitchen for a nightcap._

Dinner has left him pacing in his room, busying himself by rationalizing such a familial gesture. In the end, he settles with this being nothing but a harmless show of reassurance. How others interact with each other in Tyvia is, obviously, different to how those do in Gristol. He must learn to be forgiving of such strange behaviors, for the sake of solidifying this union between the House Kallisarr and House Bayle. Relieved with the conclusion, Nathan Bayle ventures out of his room for a quick nightcap in pajamas and slippers.

Moving quietly through the hallways, he gives a curious sound at the light streaming through his daughter’s room. It’s not like her to be up at such a late hour, but perhaps the excitement of today has left her unable to sleep. Continuing to walk down the hallway, ready to pass the room, Lord Boyle gives pause before his daughter’s room when he hears a groan from within.

He notices, now, that the door to her room is ajar. Moving closer, he peers through the opening.

He is glad that he chose caution over pushing the door wide open with loud concern, for the Prince of Tyvia is unclothed and on all fours on his daughter’s bed. He cannot see his daughter from his vantage point, but he can vividly spy the back of what must be the Kallisarr’s naked thighs and backside. Sucking in the air violently at the sight, he hastily averts his gaze to the dark hallway. This is outrageous — to have relations with his daughter before the marriage ceremony!? Lord Bayle refuses to come up with some excuse that this is nothing but a difference in customs. Torn with bristling dismay and mortification, he debates his next course of action.

> **_Choose Lord Nathan Bayle’s next course of action:_  
> **   A) Leave the two lovers and discuss this, at a later time, with his daughter.  
>   B) Do nothing and watch.  
>   C) Interrupt the two to stop their actions.


	2. The Masque of the Tyvian Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bayles and the Prince of Tyvia are invited to attend a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tumblr URL:** carvedwhalebones.tumblr.com
> 
>  **Popular Choice Chosen by Reviewers:** _(B) Do nothing and watch._

**_⤝ ⤞_ **

**Act 1, Scene 3**  
  
**Setting:** _It is after hours, all the staff having retired to their rooms. Lord Nathan Bayle emerges out of his room to make his way to the kitchen for a nightcap. He has stopped before his daughter’s room after hearing a strange sound, spying what appears like Prince Kallisarr in a state of undress._  
 

Compelled, like one is when witnessing an accident, he remains put before his daughter’s room. The carnal sounds leave him uncomfortable, the only small mercy being that all he can view is the Tyvian prince. He’s awfully pale, Lord Bayle remarks to himself, eyes fixated on the profiled view of the man’s thighs and backside. There is a whine that leaves the room, high and needy that sends him looking back into the dark hallway, mortified at the thought it’s his daughter. 

He shouldn’t be here, let alone be listening to such a depraved act that involves his own child. 

The sick sensation stews in his belly and he decides, then, that he will leave and forever purge the thought from his mind. Giving one last glance at the scene, his violent thoughts come to a numbing end at the new sight before him. Prince Pavel Kallisarr is still the only thing he sees through the crack, but the man is fully exposed to him, now. He has moved so his backside is facing him, legs spread apart and his cock hanging between. How that stuns him, mesmerized by the pink flush that colors his cock and sits heavy in his balls. Even from where he stands he can see the distinct inseam running across, swallowing nervously. 

A breathy exhale leaves him, sounding far too loud to his ears. The Prince doesn’t hear it, continuing on with whatever heinous thing occurring underneath the sheets. Kallisarr drops a pale hand between his own legs and when Lord Bayle witnesses fingers curling around his cock, beginning to give it a tug, does he immediately turn heel and leave. 

_This is inappropriate and hardly civilized!_

He keeps up his hurried gait down the hallway, scowling to himself, face a bright red. It doesn’t take him long to find himself in the kitchen, loudly going through the liquor cabinet. He settles on bourbon, pouring himself a glass and finishing it in two hearty gulps. Lord Bayle pours another, disturbed that he is still thinking of the pale backside being presented to him and the only color to be found residing on the man’s cock. 

It stirs a strange sort of heat in his groin, an errant hand sneaking its way to the front of his pajama bottoms. Lord Bayle jerks his hand aside as if it has been stung once he realizes what is hand is attempting to perform. 

“Absolutely vile,” he scolds himself.

He pours another glass of bourbon and then another until the heat in his groin begins to dissipate. He prays that this knocks him cold and dumb of what has just occurred. 

**⤝ ⤞**

**Act 2, Scene 1**  
  
**Setting:** _Outside the Bayles' home and into the sweeping acres of a backyard the family owns. The staff have set up a table and chairs for brunch. Emma Bayle and Prince Pavel Kallisarr are already at the table. Lord Bayle appears noticeably late and is busy trying to groom himself._

It’s the staff rapping at his door around noon that breaks him from his fitful slumber, a headache quick to greet him as he sits up. The pounding in his skull and the stale taste sitting on his tongue tells him he has drunk far too much the night before. Blessedly, he can’t recall why. It’s only as he makes his way outside, squinting at the afternoon light, does he recall. 

Lord Bayle rethinks joining in for brunch, beginning to turn back toward the safety of his estate. 

“M’lord, good afternoon! Please, sit down,” Prince Kallisarr’s voice pleasantly rings out, his migraine doing the same. Bayle digs a finger into one of his temples to abate the sharp pain.

Lord Bayle has no choice; he must attend this brunch. Giving an amicable smile, he takes his seat at the table. All he can think, as he looks at the Prince’s striking features, is his pale backside. Lord Bayle hides his grimace behind the cup of coffee offered to him. He really should have a word with the man. All future fathers-in-law should, anyhow. There are rules and simply because this isn’t Tyvia doesn’t mean he can display himself in such a manner in his own home.

“Father, I have some good news. The Bentons have learned of Prince Kallisarr’s arrival and wish to invite all of us to one of their parties next week!” Emma beams, revealing an opened letter to her father. “It’s a costume party, of course,” she begins to explain, “everyone is supposed to pick an animal that best represents them. We’re supposed to figure out who is who — we can even ask questions! Oh Father, we _have_ to go!” 

Lord Bayle makes a motion for the invitation over the table, pulling the card closer so he can peer at its contents. He squints at its lettering, his headache hardly helping.

“I am afraid I won’t do very well in this game. I cannot say I am well acquainted with Dunwall nobility,” Kallisarr is commenting, Emma quick to soothe. 

“Oh, don’t even worry about it. You can just guess who father and I are!”

Lord Bayle snidely remarks to himself that the only way he’ll be able to pinpoint the young Prince is if he happened to drop his trousers. How quick the thought burns his cheeks, nearly dropping the invitation into his coffee. He carefully lays the invitation down and picks at his collar. 

“What do you say, m’lord? Will you be joining us?”

He has no use to going to such an event and the Bentons have been known for their outlandish parties to heretical seances in the courtyard. At the same time, it may not be best to leave his daughter alone in such a party with someone like the Prince with his carnal pleasures. How quick the thought spurs on his disapproval of the Prince, frowning once more. 

Turning to give his answer, his disappointment wilts at the charming scene before him: Emma is all aglow in the afternoon light, casting a fond look at the Prince who sits beside her. He takes her hand in his to pepper it with a kiss before they both turn back to their plates, talking of some previous party the Bentons once held. The Prince looks absolutely engaged with what she has to say, unable to stop looking at her between each bite of his breakfast.

Lord Bayle sighs heavily and gives a conceding nod, “Very well. We shall all attend. I’ll leave it to you, Emma, to figure out where we’re supposed to find these blasted costumes.”

**⤝ ⤞**

**Act 2, Scene 2**  
  
**Setting:** _A week has passed and it is the night of the Bentons’ party. Emma has insisted that they arrive in separate carriages and not inform the other of what masks they are deciding to wear. Lord Nathan Bayle has arrived in one of his dark suits, hardly pleased with the design the shop has created for his mask. The shop has created something meant to resemble an elk, but it’s far too extravagant for his liking._

For all the secrecy that Emma has insisted on for this event, she has given too much of a helping hand with the suggestions of a possible costume for her father. She refuses to tell him of what she will be wearing, however, and Nathan Bayle has a sneaking suspicion he will have to fend for himself tonight, clueless of where to find his daughter and hardly interested in engaging with Dunwall’s socialites. Lord Bayle heaves out a sigh when the carriage comes to a halt. Slipping on his mask, he exits the carriage.

The mask, despite his little to no love for such parties, _is_ rather stunning. Pricy, too. It is the same shade of his dark suit, a touch of navy across its felt exterior that nearly shimmers when the light catches it. Polished, ivory horns sit at the top, a little too noticeable for his liking, but adequate enough for him to pass through a door. Only the areas above his mouth are covered by the mask, providing the luxury for him to converse and enjoy a drink. He only prays his own daughter will recognize him or that he will be able to recognize the Prince.

Immediately, upon entering the Bentons estate, is Lord Nathan Bayle thrown into a multicolored array of masks and clothing. Even the staff have been made to wear masks —  mostly common sparrows —  nearly unnoticeable against the vibrant guests and food. Lord Bayle signs his name on the guest list and hastily scans it for his daughter’s name. He spies it near the top and gives a relieved sigh. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention!” 

The background music that can be barely heard over the roar of the crowd comes to a halt, the chattering occupants falling into hushed whispers. A woman rises from the crowd, meant to appear as one of those Serkonan tree frogs, bright red eyes sitting on her skull. Nathan Bayle assumes that must be Lady Benton, dully pointing out that she has even gone as far as painting her own lips a dark green to match the rest of her mask. 

Lord Bayle makes to the servant with a tray of drinks, grabbing a flute of champagne.

“Welcome to our home and welcome Prince Kallisarr, whatever creature you may be!” The crowd chuckles and applauds politely. “Tonight the rules are rather simple: you must guess who is underneath the mask and can only do so by asking three ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions! Whoever guesses the most correctly by midnight wins the challenge! Make sure to grab the parchment and pens near the front.  So drink and good luck!” she reaches down as if to grab something before standing upright, holding out her own drink. The crowd cheers with her, the music beginning to start up once more. 

Nathan can’t say he’s entirely sure what to do, other than mill about, looking for any signs of what may be his daughter. He begrudgingly partakes in the game only to figure out if one of them may be his Emma, but doesn’t bother grabbing one of the parchments. 

There are more than a few guests who are intent on figuring out who every masked guest is, Lord Bayle relieved that the most common question being asked is if he has a daughter who is to be wed to a prince. It diminishes how long he has to interact with the others, slipping his way into the side rooms where it’s far quieter. 

**⤝ ⤞**

**Act 2, Scene 3**  
  
**Setting:** _Lord Nathan Bayle finds himself moving through the different colored rooms in the Benton household. Each room carries a distinct colored theme, every item and painting matching said color: purple, green, white, orange, blue, and black. Lord Bayle moves through them, nursing his drink._

Lord Bayle has decided to pick a far stronger drink from the passing servants, settling with whiskey. It calms his nerves, not too fond of the prying eyes who are so eager to figure who he is. His attempt to locate his daughter has waned, telling himself that she is having far too much fun to be bothered and must be in the ballroom where the crowd is the largest. It doesn’t stop him from staring too closely at the guests who may have the same color hair as her or a dress he recognizes. 

He _does_ spy a man wearing a mask meant to depict peacock, rolling his eyes at the thought that it may be Prince Kallisarr. 

The noble moves through the colored rooms, watching the other guests settle by the fireplace to chat with the other, share a cigar, or furiously compare their parchments of who is who. The amount of guests appear to lesson the cooler the color of the room, the blue illuminated room only carrying a couple who are curled into the other in a corner. Bayle scrutinizes the couple before deciding it is not his daughter and Prince Kallisarr. 

He must admit, he is not as irked as he was the week before with the Prince. With his daughter so enamored by him, he has decided to take a more forgiving route. Nathan Bayle reminds himself that when he first met his late wife, he could hardly keep his own hands off of her before their wedding day. He should just be pleased that his daughter gets to wed someone she adores, rather than someone she cares little about. Not many others can be so lucky. 

Lord Bayle’s thoughts have taken him far from the party, finding that he has drifted into a room that is decorated in black. Only the fireplace brings light into the room and some semblance of warmth. He is the only one in the room, it appears, possibly the only one who has even step foot into this room since the party started. Taking it as a blessing, he makes his way about the room, taking in the hanging art. He only needs to wait till midnight and all will unveil themselves. He’ll surely find his daughter then. 

“You’re rather far from the main event, m’lord,” a distinctly male voice cuts through the silence, startling Lord Bayle. His drink spills out of his glass and over his hand. 

“Apologies.” 

Lord Bayle waves his dry hand in dismissal of the apology, resting the, now, empty glass on an end table. “No, it’s fine. You only startled me,” he returns, moving to pull his handkerchief out, but the stranger beats him to it. 

Nathan takes the offered cloth with a murmur of thanks. It’s only when he returns it does he get a look at the intruder. The man is wearing a burgundy suit with a mask that completely covers his face. Lord Bayle thinks that the mask may be depicting some sort of bear, dark fur covering it in entirety. Which is fitting seeing the man is rather broad shouldered, looking imposing in this strangely lit room. 

“You meant to be a bear?” he asks, conversationally, when the man remains quiet.

“No. Saw this creature on my travels north — a wolverine. Far smaller than any bear,” the stranger returns. Lord Bayle can’t say he can make out the man’s voice, the mask muffling it to where he has to take a step closer to actually hear the man’s words clearly. “Are you here to play the game?” 

Lord Bayle gives a heavy sigh, shrugging his shoulders, “I suppose. You may begin, if you wish.” 

The stranger gives a nod and pulls his hands behind his back, “Have you always lived in Dunwall?” 

“Yes.” 

Hardly a good question to ask, seeing that nearly all of the nobles in this event are Dunwall-bred. 

“Do you have children?” the stranger inquires, taking a step forward. Lord Bayle, automatically, takes a step back.

“I do — yes,” Lord Bayle returns, his brows furrowing because these are poor questions. He only has one question left. There is no possible way this stranger will ever guess who he is. 

The stranger steps forward, again, and Lord Bayle finds himself backed into the wall. He presses his palm against it, trying to straighten his posture, unsure of what is exactly unfolding before him. He makes his discomfort apparent, but the stranger doesn’t seem to notice.

“Final question, m’lord,” the stranger assures, “Do you often watch others when they’re in a state of undress?”

The blood drains from his face at the calm question, eyes wide at the realization of who this is. He sputters out in dismay, shifting uncomfortably against the wall. “Well, I — I — I have no clue what you are — ”

“I believe it’s either a _yes_ or _no_ ,” Prince Kallisar reminds. Lord Bayle can only choke on his own words and makes to slip away from where he is cornered, but a hand keeps him put. The Tyvian prince has placed his hand on his chest, firmly keeping him against the wall. The hand burns, heat seeping through his very clothes and singeing the flesh on his chest. Lord Bayle can’t help but shudder.  
  
The hand lessens in its pressure when the Prince moves closer, blocking all exits with his broad frame. “Should I ask a different question?” the Prince muses, the hand on his chest sliding dangerously down toward his side. “Do you _enjoy_ watching others when they’re in a state of undress?” 

Lord Bayle can hardly make eye contact with the masked prince, embarrassed at having been caught and accused of such a thing. With whatever composure he can muster left, he defiantly answers, “No.”

“Well, Lord Bayle,” Prince Kallisarr shifts closer, slipping a thigh between his legs. Lord Bayle audibly gasps at the close proximity of the man’s thigh against his groin, trying to press himself further into the wall to create distance. “It is your turn to ask your questions.” 

  

> _**Choose Lord Nathan Bayle’s next course of action:**_  
>    
>  A) Push Prince Kallisarr away and leave the room.   
>  B) Play along and ask your three questions, even though you know who it really is.  
>  C) Defend yourself and use this as an opportunity to scold the Prince for engaging in inappropriate relations with your daughter before the date of their wedding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_
> 
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>  
> 
> **Don't forget to pick your choice in the comments! The most popular choice is written into the next chapter!**


	3. The Tyvian Strictures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Bayle and Prince Kallisarr visit the Abbey of the Everyman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tumblr URL:** carvedwhalebones.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> **Popular Choice Chosen by Reviewers:**  
>  _(B) Play along and ask your three questions, even though you know who it really is._

**_⤝ ⤞_ **

_**Act 2, Scene 3  
**  
**Setting:**_ _Lord Nathan Bayle finds himself in one of the themed rooms in the Benton household. Prince Kallisarr, dressed as a wolverine, has cornered Lord Bayle in one of the rooms. Completely decorated in different shades of black and avoided by the other guests, both men are given this strange moment of privacy._

Prince Pavel Kallisarr is a source of heat that he cannot dismiss or escape from. His intruding thigh remains between his own legs and Lord Bayle is close to standing on the tip of his toes to keep from making contact. Then there is the matter of the hand on his side, sitting far too low to be considered polite. 

Lord Bayle’s breathing has long ago turned laborious with their closeness. With calves aching, he forces himself to rise higher against his spot on the wall.

A hand squeezes his side, giving the older man a harsh intake of air. Prince Kallisarr’s muffled voice encourages, “Your questions, m’lord.” 

He blinks rapidly under his mask, trying to gather himself and his senses. Lord Boyle goes to find strength in his disappointment in the man’s behavior toward his daughter, but how his thoughts betray him, only bringing back images of Pavel Kallisarr’s strong thighs. 

Swallowing thickly, he focuses on a spot underneath the jowls of the man’s mask. It’s easier to address the layered fur. “Are you here for Tyvia or are you here for yourself?” he asks. He hopes it will shake sense into the young man. Perhaps talk of home and country will return proper behavior into the Prince. 

The Prince only eases himself closer, hip bumping into hip, hand drifting down to the muscle of his thigh. There is a cold nose pressing into the side of his throat, the beastly mask disturbing whatever remainder space between them. It makes him delirious with heat, fighting the urge to tug on his collar or push his mask off to wipe at his brows. Lord Bayle can only respond with a scandalized look; Prince Kallisarr remains unaffected.

“I believe you are only to ask questions that require a _‘yes’_ or _‘no’_ response,” the Prince reminds good-naturedly. “I will answer it — just this once. I am here for both Tyvia and myself. As for this very moment? Just myself.” 

Oh, how Lord Bayle can feel heat rise from his chest to his neck. The man’s flattery flows effortlessly past his lips, the strong lit that comes from the man’s accent only serving to color his cheeks further. Lord Bayle imagines there must be a smirk behind the man’s mask. The pale fiend must be incredibly pleased with himself.

“You certain you are not here to torture Dunwall’s nobility?” he returns breathlessly, rather aware that he will not last long in this precarious position he has found himself in. A part of him reminds him he can still push his way out of this corner and room. There is no need to play this game with Prince Kallisarr. 

The Tyvian prince laughs from behind his mask, shaking his head, the chilled nose of the man’s mask dragging against his neck. It’s a strange balm to the fever he is suffering from. 

“No, that is hardly my intent, m’lord. However, I will consider _that_ your second question. You only have one left.” 

 _Brat_. It was not meant to be one of his questions, but fighting the claim seems unwise — perhaps provocative in this scenario. He cannot say, entirely unsure of how to handle himself. 

In a moment of frustration and forgetting himself, his calves seek reprieve and he is sinking back onto his heels. The soft pressure against his groin, Kallisarr’s thigh meeting his descending body, has his heart leaping into his throat. He is all quick movement, returning to his awkward perch above the man’s thigh, feeling foolish with his frantic behavior. How desperately he needs to regain his footing in this little game of theirs and how infuriating this is becoming having a conversation with the face of some beast. 

“Take off the mask,” he demands quickly, relieved and invigorated when his voice rings with authority.

The hand on his upper thigh leaves, fingers carefully removing the mask. Prince Kallisarr’s face is revealed, cheeks rosy by the heat residing within the contraption and hair disheveled. The younger man is a rather pleasing sight, fingers combing his hair into submission. Lord Bayle recognizes his folly for making such a request. He finds his next question difficult to ask now that he has to stare the man in the face. 

“My final question,” he begins with a heave, unsettled by the man’s studying gaze. Nathan Bayle works his jaw, mustering his courage and reminding himself that this game will be over soon. “Were you aware that I was there that night?” 

Prince Kallisarr damns him with a single smile, “Yes, m’lord.” 

A clock sitting in the room or in the next begins to ring with the declaration. Whether by the sound or the simple admission, the strength in Lord Bayle’s calves give. He’s sinking back onto his feet, groin sliding against the man’s thigh. A pathetic noise is drowned by the clock, hands grabbing at the man for support.

The infuriating rascal does nothing but watch. There is no smugness or glib from the Tyvian Prince, just curiosity. 

Lord Bayle doesn’t know why that sets his blood aflame. 

“Thank you, m’lord. I believe we both know who the other is, now,” Prince Kallisarr finishes once the last ring of the clock ceases into silence. He steps away from the Dunwall noble, fetches his mask, and leaves with a polite incline of the head. 

Lord Bayle can only stare at the man, blunt nails digging into the fine wallpaper behind him to keep him from sinking onto his knees. 

**_⤝ ⤞_ **

**Act 2, Scene 4  
**

**Setting:** _Lord Bayle has decided to depart from the Bentons’ before the end of the party, visibly flustered. He has made his way to the awaiting queue of rail cars, shrugging off whatever concern he may have received from the guards. Lord Bayle fails to see one of Prince Kallisarr’s black-masked Operators observing him from a distance. When Lord Bayle climbs into his rail car does the Operator enter the Benton estate._

 

Lord Bayle finds solitude in the rail car, sinking into the cushioned seats as he begins to feel the car rock forward. Despite the security granted by the closed doors, he cannot stop the shaking of his hands. He removes his own mask, laying it on the seat next to him before tugging on his own collar for relief. 

His thoughts are plagued with images of Prince Kallisarr: the man’s flushed face, him peering down at him in the Benton household, the man’s exposed backside, and that smile. 

Lord Bayle knows, now, that the Prince was aware he had a visitor that night. He can’t help but wonder if that moment when he turned away and, then, back to the scene, to find the Prince so exposed and on display, was the Prince’s very acknowledgement of his presence. That, just perhaps, the man sticking his backside in the air, fingers wrapped around the girth of his cock was meant for him. 

That’s a selfish thought that burns him, fingers scrambling to undo the first two buttons of his dress shirt. 

The gesture provides little relief and he cannot lie that he is confused by Prince Kallisarr’s actions. Shamefully, he expected a moment of ravaging. He expected the depraved actions he witnessed that night ago to surface in that darkened room. Yet none of it came to pass. The Prince only observed as his hips shook with poor resistance, riding the man’s sturdy thigh. 

The phantom pressure still remains from the moment, Lord Bayle unsure of how to address the issue sitting in his lap. 

He focuses on ignoring it, but all thoughts lead to Prince Kallisarr and that pleasing face of his when he removed the mask. His cock aches in his trousers and whether because of the assured privacy of the rail car or a lack of willpower against the Tyvian scourge, he cups himself through his trousers. A shaky noise leaves him as he kneads himself, refusing to view the sight. He’s far too embarrassed by his own weakness and he dares not to see it in completion. 

It is hardly enough pressure, digging the heel of his palm into his crotch. He begins to rut against it, refusing to admit that he is thinking of the thigh that once resided between his legs. This is only a fluke — a mixture of the alcohol he has ingested and an absence of intimacy that has spanned for over a decade.  
  
All it takes is imagining Prince Kallisarr on all fours, again, with his thighs spread far for him to fall apart. 

Lord Bayle wallows in his shame, embracing the wet discomfort as he makes his journey home.

**_⤝ ⤞_ **

**Act 3, Scene 1  
**

**Setting:** _It is the morning after the party, the cast having returned to the Bayle estate. Prince Kallisarr is lounging not too far from the table, nursing a cigarette._

 

Shame makes it difficult to pull himself out of bed. There are still thoughts of the Tyvian Prince lingering, warming the base of his spine. It is only when the staff have stopped with their polite knocking and offering of a cup of coffee does he know he has stayed too long in bed. 

Lord Bayle has no clue how to greet the morning after his encounter with Prince Kallisarr, let alone how to greet the man himself. Forcing himself to rise from bed, he’s directed by staff to the table set up outside. There is a momentary sense of relief when he spies the table empty. Kallisarr is nowhere in sight. 

His relief is quickly dashed when he catches sight of pale skin catching the light to his far right. 

Prince Kallisarr has made himself at home on one of the outdoor fainting couches in casual wear, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. A cigarette is hanging low between his lips, focused on a folded copy of this morning’s newspaper. He is effortlessly stunning in his sprawled out state. Lord Bayle finds himself following the unbuttoned gap in his shirt that exposes the man’s jutting collarbone. He thinks he spies a freckle…

“I must say, Dunwall’s parties are rather exciting,” Kallisarr drawls, startling Lord Bayle from his thoughts. 

Lord Bayle feels his face color at the remark, purposely looking everywhere but the Prince. He’s unsure of how to respond, opting for silence. He busies himself with making himself a plate at the table, taking a seat.

Prince Kallisarr is unfazed by the silence, continuing on.  
  
“It appears, however, like it was too much for dear Emma.” That, quickly, pulls Lord Bayle’s attention back to the Prince. He must admit, he nearly forgot his daughter. Guilt grips him, ashamed that he went about last evening and this morning without giving Emma but a thought.  
  
“I believe the festivities and that interesting punch they were serving has turned her ill. Rest assured, m’lord,” Kallisarr raises a hand to placate the man when Lord Bayle rises sharply from his seat, “she is being attended to and will improve. Your staff is tending to her and I recommended a Tyvian dish to help with her ailments.” 

Prince Kallisarr returns to his cigarette and Lord Bayle is left relieved and grateful. 

It’s such a strange feeling, staring queerly at the young man. 

“Thank you.” 

Breakfast goes, surprisingly, well. The Prince’s act of kindness and concern toward his daughter has put his nerves to bed. Despite Emma’s poor state, from Kallisarr’s account, his daughter had a marvelous time and won the competition. That stirs a warm smile from Lord Bayle, relaxing into his seat as he finishes the last of his meal. They debate, in pleasant spirits, of what the prize may be, trying to remember Emma’s words on the matter. 

“That reminds me, m’lord,” the Tyvian prince begins, rising up from his seat and moving to join Lord Bayle at the table. His cheeks are just a slight shade of pink, skin warmed by the morning sun. “I, originally, was hoping to take the two of you out on a hunt. The staff tell me you have quite the array of wildlife that live on your lands. My hounds would benefit greatly from a bit of exercise.”

“Wild turkeys and the sort. A few deer, I believe,” Lord Bayle, absently, gives a nod.

“Emma insisted we go ahead with the plan without her. I defer to your thoughts on the matter.” 

 _Ah._  
  
Another moment of being alone with the Prince and so far from the walls of his own manor. The thought has his heart quicken, turning his eyes away from the young man. 

“We should wait for Emma. I think…” he begins, trying to rummage for some sort of excuse, “she’d enjoy seeing her old man fumble with a rifle.” 

“Oh? You strike me as a man with a confident and firm grip, m’lord,” Prince Kallisarr challenges. Lord Bayle doesn’t need to turn to look at the man to see the damn smirk on his lips. 

Visibly flustered, the older gentleman keeps his hands occupied by folding the napkin on his lap and placing it on the table.  
  
“However, there is a matter of business we must attend to,” Lord Bayle starts, his words beginning to pick up optimistic momentum as the thought begins to formulate fully. “We must speak with the local Abbey to make sure ceremonies can be held in Dunwall for you both. It’s best we handle these matters sooner than later.” 

Lord Bayle cannot think of anything better of ridding himself of such uncivilized thoughts and refocusing on this union than a trip to the Abbey of the Everyman. It would do good to remember and recite the Strictures.

**_⤝ ⤞_ **

**Act 3, Scene 2  
**

**Setting:** _Both Lord Bayle and Prince Kallisarr are at the Abbey, having just met with an Overseer. The two are finishing their business with them. The helpful Overseer informs them to wait in one of the Abbey’s small chapels as they complete their end of the paperwork. The audience hears the brief exchange before the Overseer leaves. Lord Bayle is, currently, seated on one of the pews, appearing preoccupied with his own thoughts. Prince Kallisarr is not too far off, busy admiring one of the stained glass windows. The room is casted in different shades of red and purple._  
 

“I believe Emma will enjoy having two ceremonies: one in Dunwall, the other in Dabokva,” Prince Kallisarr voices out loud. He has been engaged in a one-sided conversation the past twenty minutes with Lord Bayle since the priest departed, the man answering with the occasional hum in agreement. The Prince, continues, “It is custom in Tyvia for the wedding festivities to last up to a week. Streets will be closed down, pubs opened all night — ” 

“Do you love my daughter?” Lord Bayle spontaneously inquires, pulling himself from his thoughts. 

Prince Kallisarr gives pause, turning to face the man, finding Lord Bayle staring intently at him.

The Tyvian shakes his head with a smile, “No, m’lord.”  
  
Lord Bayle opens his mouth to voice his displeasure, but Prince Pavel interrupts. “I would be a liar to say that I do. I cannot love a person in but weeks, Lord Bayle. One day, certainly, I will come to that point or, at least, learn to love dear Emma, but not in this pressing moment. That takes time.” 

Nathan Bayle leans back into the pew he is seated on, quiet. He did not expect such a response and he finds, now, that it gives him a great deal of comfort. 

“I…” Lord Bayle begins, his frustration dispelled by such a response, “I appreciate your candor, Prince Kallisarr.” 

The dark-haired prince’ smile only widens, leaning toward the older gentleman. “I hope you will appreciate it even further, then,” he begins, “while I hold your daughter in the highest of regards, my interests continue to grow for you, m’lord.” 

Lord Bayle rises from the pew as if he has been personally affronted, taking a few steps back from the pale prince. How his heart is already beating madly in his chest, memories of the night before burning deep in his gut. He was hoping to avoid this in this sacred place. 

“You are to wed my daughter,” Lord Bayle returns, his voice nothing but a loud whisper, unsure why it’s leaving him this way, “not me!” 

With that Prince Kallisarr chuckles, rising to his feet in one smooth move. Nathan Bayle, already, is coloring as the prince approaches him. “My late mother once told me that when you wed another, you wed the whole family,” he retorts with good humor, Lord Bayle choking on his spit. 

He needs to say something in retort. He _must_ admonish — _rebuke_! Lord Bayle can only shake, fingers curled into fists. He does well not to end up in a corner like before, his back finding refuge against the stone altar.

Prince Kallisarr’s smile turns coy, giving a small berth between them both. He takes his time eyeing the sight, remarking with appreciation, “I do hope you plan on sacrificing those reservations on that altar, m’lord.”

“So y-you could — ” he’s sputtering, skin heated under the man’s admiring gaze, “could ravish me, y-you fiend?! Do you know no decency?!” He forces his voice to fall back into a whisper when his words echo loudly through the room. He can only imagine the humiliation of an Overseer walking in to see him close to bending backwards over the altar before the foreign Prince. Or, perhaps, that is exactly what must be seen to stop this madness that is leaving him feverish. 

What a strange turn of events, for it is Prince Kallisarr’s turn to look surprised.

“M’lord,” the prince begins with a sigh, tucking his hands politely behind his back, “you misunderstand me.” 

Oh, how Lord Bayle could muster the will to laugh at such a statement, but he’s still shaking and he doesn’t trust his tongue. 

“As tantalizing as the thought is, that is not my intent,” Prince Kallisarr admits, “I would like quite the opposite, m’lord. I hope for you to _‘ravish_ ’ me.”

Lord Bayle remains still, struggling to comprehend the man’s response. His thoughts, sluggishly, attempt to decipher his words. When it dawns upon him what the Tyvian Prince has been vying for, he can only look upon the man, slack-jawed and aghast. The man’s actions begin to reach a level of clarity, thoughts returning to that moment he walked upon the prince. It was no accident the man presented himself in such a way, his hope for him to— 

“By the Void,” he’s breathing out shakily, forcing himself to interrupt such lewd thoughts. He hides his reddened face by turning his back to the Prince. 

“I can see you are distressed; that was hardly my intention,” Prince Kallisarr interjects, after a polite moment of silence. “If you see this as nothing as a headache, I will cease my attempts. Just say the word.” 

 

 

>   _ **Choose Lord Nathan Bayle’s next course of action:**_
> 
> A) Tell Prince Kallisarr to stop and end such behavior.  
>  B) Leave the Abbey. You need to cool down and regain your composure.  
>  C) You feel yourself become lightheaded and overheated, feeling as if you might faint. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Make sure to choose Lord Nathan Bayle's actions in the comments!**  
>   
> 
> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_


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